


The Mummer's Mask

by Azzandra



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Mild Horror, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 01:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17909048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: What do you do when you are but a poor government worker, arriving into a town taken over by a monster?The practical thing.





	The Mummer's Mask

When Phaedra walked into the village of Zelbada, there seemed to be a carnival taking place. Dancers spun each other in circles, hands clamped firmly on each others' waists, but feet moving in quick, practiced steps, and when they turned their faces to Phaedra, their smiles were motionless painted lines; they were all wearing masks.

Phaedra slowed at the first stall with masks. The vendor reached out towards her with one hand holding a mask. Then with a second hand holding another mask. And then a third hand, emerging from the folds on the back of the vendor's coat, presented her with yet a third mask.

Two of the masks were of lovely faces, painted so precisely with delicate lines that Phaedra could almost hear the dreamy sighs to match their expressions. The third mask was limned with pain, lines more delicate and yet more sharp, blue flowers crowning its forehead. There was quiet agony in it. Phaedra looked up in the vendor's mask, and was met with ceramic cheeriness. She moved on without saying a word.

"Does it not have enough pain?" the vendor asked in a papery whisper as Phaedra departed, their voice holding more despondency than she was comfortable with.

There were other stalls, offering yet more wares, yet more varied faces, but Phaedra did not stop until she was at Zelbada's distribution office, a stout little building piled into the most shadowed corner of the village square. There were lamps and candles in the square, and yet more of the masked dancers, who seemed to move in time not to the gaudy carnival music, but to the flicker of the flames.

When Phaedra entered the distribution office, she expected to step out of the carnival and into a more sober space. 

There was a great wax altar coming up to her shoulder in an alcove in the wall. It barely looked purposeful, but more like some irresponsible individuals had been sticking candles into the wax whenever a wick ran out. The honey-thick scent of wax coated the inside of her nostrils from the first breath, and the prickle of smoke settled on her tongue. 

A functionary in threadbare tailcoats was sticking a new candle into the great pile of wax, in the crook where two candles had burnt out. The new candle sputtered to life, and the functionary turned.

The functionary had a mask as well, yellowed along the edges, with hairline cracks where wrinkles should have been. The expression on it was dour.

"Grain shipment from the Pharast depot," Phaedra announced. "It's right outside town, but I need someone to sign for it."

"Oh, do you?" the functionary said, voice discordantly cheerful compared to the mask's expression. "Won't you stay for the carnival, then?"

Phaedra blinked, unsure how exactly one statement followed the other logically.

"I just need a signature," she said. "I don't need to stay for the carnival." Nor did she want to.

"They sell masks in the square," the functionary continued unperturbed.

"Wonderful," Phaedra said, and produced a ream of papers from her front coat pocket. "Sign this form, and I can go browse."

The functionary waved off the paper, indifferent, and shuffled over to a desk, curiously free of any paper at all.

"It is alright, I don't need to sign. Go enjoy the carnival," came the reply to Phaedra's request.

Phaedra stood in place, momentarily flummoxed. The functionary sat stiffly at the desk, hands folded primly on the desktop, completely immobile in a way that matched the mask too closely.

At a loss, Phaedra decided to retreat for now.

Once she was outside, she rolled up the papers and slipped them back into the pocket of her travel coat. 

Her usual routine after delivering an allotment was to make sure it was logged, pick up a shipment if there was anything to pick up, and then leave. She had few needs that her caravan couldn't already provide. So the towns and villages with their gentle homes and welcoming inns could occasionally provide a change of pace, but Phaedra had her necessities covered.

Needless to say, she had no real interest in carnivals. But perhaps there was some interdiction about doing official work on carnival days. Superstition or tradition, some social norm or mere whim, Phaedra had occasionally run into this problem where she simply arrived on the wrong day to drop off an allotment. Only thing to do was wait until the time was right again.

The dancers were still tilting around her in loose waltzes, and they all seemed to be turning their masked faces towards her as she passed them. It was making her dizzy.

The vendor at the entrance into the village let out a long, mournful sigh as she walked past without glancing at any of the displayed wares.

Phaedra didn't feel completely at ease until she was out of the lights of the village, and back into the safe darkness of the country road.

 

* * *

 

Morning meant a cold breakfast and a cup of watery tea served in the cab of her caravan. Her cramped compartment behind the driving cabin was just large enough for a bed, a bolted down cabinet for clothes and sundry, and an ice chest for perishable food and drink. For all her other belongings, she had the additional storage compartment at the back. She even had the converted scouring room as an improvised bathroom, because while her caravan wasn't up to code for transporting dangerous chemical substances, it still had the obligatory facilities for organic waste disposal and rapid cleaning in case of accidents. For entertainment she had her books, which traveled well, and her games, which was an ever-growing collection.

Phaedra had her knees drawn up in her seat, propped again the dashboard as she chomped down on a piece of rolled up flatbread filled with vegetable mash. Her teacup was balanced on her kneecap, because her arm wasn't long enough to reach out and place it on the dashboard comfortably from her position.

"So, we can't leave yet," Phaedra said suddenly, as she chewed on her breakfast. She'd misjudged the bread-to-filling ratio, making the roll too dry for her taste. "Nobody signed yet."

A small clockwork sparrow preening its artificial feathers on the dashboard paused and turned beady black eyes on Phaedra. The two beads were uneven, not perfectly round, making the sparrow's expression look permanently judgmental.

"What pressing business could these people have more important than getting free food?" the sparrow asked, displeased but not especially invested in the matter.

"There was a carnival," Phaedra said. "Dancing and stuff."

"Oh, no. Fun. You must have felt so out of place there," the sparrow continued dryly. "It makes your dawdling here all the more inexplicable."

"I'm not dawdling, I just don't have a signature yet," Phaedra replied. "So I'm going back into Zelbada today. Someone there must want this grain, and I'm going to find that person."

"Okay, but be careful," the sparrow said sardonically. "If you stay there too long, you may be in danger of cracking a smile."

"Uh huh."

"In fact, you might even--"

"Yeah."

"--begin to tap your foot to the music, if things get extreme."

"Thanks. Thank you. I'll be vigilant."

Phaedra shook her head, and sipped her tea. The sparrow made a final contemptuous sound before going back to arranging its artificial fluff in a semblance of order.

 

* * *

 

The next day, as she walked into the village, Phaedra was greeted by the unhappy news that the carnival was still ongoing. There was far less dancing, but music still ran in the background, like a tinny, looping music box had been left open by accident. Since Phaedra could see no musicians, she had no reason to assume otherwise.

The villagers were garbed in heavy festival robes, and in the daylight, Phaedra could see they were mostly of the same dark red, cinched at the waist but trailing ratty hems, as if frayed by all the dancing.

Phaedra made for the distribution office again, but failed to find the functionary from the evening before. The office was dusty and bare and empty, except for the candles, which still burned. The only window was covered by a heavy curtain.

So Phaedra walked back outside, and circled through the square until she found the local tavern. There was no sign to mark it as such, but she could tell by the polished groove on the doorframe, where people touched to honor the Pact of Revelry before they entered. Phaedra brushed a thumb over it as well as she entered.

The tavern was dark as well, the candles keeping the light too low even for comfort. Masked villagers sat at tables, much too poised, with full glasses set before them. A few turned their faces towards Phaedra, as if scenting her on the air.

If Phaedra could get her signature from a mayor, an administrator, a village elder, a cleric, any of those options could do. But in a pinch, when nobody else was there, a tavernkeeper did just as well. Tavernkeepers were usually known by most people in a village--often by far more people than knew the cleric.

But then the tavernkeeper wasn't anywhere in the tavern.

She sat at the counter, waiting for a long time, eyes going between the door leading to the back and the entrance. There was a murmur of conversation, hushed to whisper, and there were the villagers standing too straight, not drinking. The air was dry and flickering with candlelight. There was no expectancy, perhaps because none of the glasses were emptying. Perhaps there was no need for a tavernkeeper. Certainly nobody seemed to be drinking enough to justify the presence of one.

It was the first inkling Phaedra had that something in the village might be truly off, and not just strange.

She nearly hoisted herself out of her seat and marched back out again, when the door opened and in strode the first bare face she'd seen in the entire village.

By the swagger, the mismatched, gaudy patchwork of color in his outfit, and the liberal amounts of oil in his dark, backswept hair, Phaedra's guess was merchant. He spotted her right away, eyes lighting up at the sight of her uniform, and Phaedra knew her guess was right. Merchants loved to see the Allotment Office uniform; it meant business was about to get better in a place. People were more willing to indulge in frivolity when their basic needs were met.

He strode confidently towards her, sitting down on the next stool over from her, but turning to face her.

"Late in the year for a shipment, isn't it?" he asked, gracing her with a wide smile.

"I'm behind schedule," Phaedra said plainly. "The original caravan broke down and I'm a late replacement." She paused for a beat before continuing, "But if it's that late in the year, what are you doing here?"

He laughed, his good cheer resounding through the unnatural stillness of the tavern, and then he extended his hand, introducing himself.

"Neelo."

"Phaedra," she replied, noticing that he did not answer the question. "I don't suppose you happen to know where I could get a signature?"

"Someone's signature in particular, or are you just a collector?"

Phaedra drew out the papers from her coat pocket.

"I really do need someone to sign for this shipment," she said. "I don't suppose you'd--"

"Oh, no!" he laughed, raising his hands in a warding gesture. "Great grieving stones, no. Wouldn't get caught up in bureaucracy if you paid me. Try town hall."

"Am I actually likely to find someone willing to sign at town hall?" Phaedra asked, feeling very wearied all of a sudden.

Neelo made a so-so gesture and shrugged.

"Wonderful, very edifying," Phaedra said, rolling up the forms and stuffing them back into her pocket. "I don't suppose the carnival is likely to end anytime soon either, is it?"

"Dancing makes them happy," Neelo replied, his voice going hushed like sharing a secret.

"Constantly, though?"

"As long as they can keep it up," he said. 

"Okay. And the masks?"

"What about the masks?"

"What's the point of them, I guess I'm asking."

"Ah." Neelo scratched his cheek, thoughtfully. His gaze fixed on some far-off point over her shoulder. "The masks are... hm. I think you need to put one on to understand that part. They're--ah, yes..."

One of the masked villagers sitting at a table rose and produced a mask from the folds of their robes, presenting it to Phaedra.

"Yes, you need to try the mask on yourself," Neelo said, gesturing towards the mask as the villager held it out.

Phaedra twisted in her seat, peering at the proffered object. It was lacquered, black with gold decorative lines, small dots of red forming a smattering of tiny flowers along the cheekbones and sides of the face. Phaedra picked up the mask, against her better judgment, and when she took a closer look at the decorative motifs along the temples of the mask, she could see where the golden lines turned into ribbons, held in the beaks of tiny brown house sparrows.

Phaedra nearly dropped the mask, but the villager had melted back into the crowd as soon as Phaedra's hands were on the mask, so she was left holding it, a full arm's length away from her body as she was seized by a sudden horrid premonition.

She twisted in her seat back towards Neelo, holding out the mask to him, but he bent away like a willow branch in strong wind, holding up his hands defensively.

"No, no," he smiled, his expression belying the frightened arc of his body, "it's a gift. Please do keep it." 

Phaedra dropped it on the counter. Its clatter against the wood was a dull sound, but it resounded off the walls of the tavern like the shrillness of screams against cavern walls.

Masked faces turned to Phaedra as smoothly as pendulums, and remained fixed on her, expressionless but accusatory.

Phaedra rose from the stool slowly, making no abrupt movement.

"I'll try town hall, thanks," she said, and walked towards the door.

The masked faces remained fixed on her. Nobody did anything to impede her progress, and nobody said anything to stop her. That somehow made it all feel worse.

 

* * *

 

The dancing had started again in the village square. The candles were alight even in daylight, flickering despite the unstirring air.

Phaedra walked over to the red-painted posts of town hall, just across the square from the distribution office, but the gate was locked, and the small courtyard was empty. She knocked, she rattled the gate, she kicked the gate but it did not open.

When she finally gave up and turned to leave, a circle of tiny masked figures had assembled. None of them even reached Phaedra's chest in height, and judging by the shortness of their hems, they were all children. Their masks were small to fit their faces, painted with flowers and animals.

One of the children extended a mask towards Phaedra.

"If not the sparrows, then the swallows?" the child asked. 

The mask's colors were inverted to the colors of the mask she'd been offered in the tavern. Along the temples and over the forehead like the suggestion of a circlet were flocks of sleek black swallows against a golden background, perched upon parallel black lines like music notes. If Phaedra looked long enough, she'd start recognizing the melody, so she instead sidestepped the children and walked towards the road out of town.

 

* * *

 

Neelo was waiting at the caravan when Phaedra arrived. He was hunched over, hands in his pockets, looking vaguely sheepish but completely lacking the fear from before.

"When does the carnival end?" Phaedra asked brusquely.

Neelo laughed nervously, and leaned against the hood of the caravan. The clockwork sparrow had come out of the cabin to look at Neelo, and it jumped across his knuckles when he put out his hand.

"Traditionally," Neelo said, "the carnival ends when the Mummer shows himself."

"So where's the Mummer hiding?" Phaedra asked.

"The Mummer's not--" Neelo sighed. "The Mummer's not hiding. The Mummer's just not showing himself."

"Because then the carnival doesn't have to end?" Phaedra asked peevishly.

"Dancing makes them happy," Neelo repeated, voice hollow, shoulders slumped. "Just put on the mask. It won't do you any harm."

"Why don't you put it on?" Phaedra asked.

Neelo's gaze slanted towards the ground, and Phaedra could read his guilt in the exact angle of his neck as Neelo avoided her eyes.

"Oh, I see," she said, because she very much thought she did. One of these things was not like the other. In a village of strange, the ordinary stuck out. 

"I just need a little more time," Neelo said. "A little more time to convince him. You're not helping by agitating him. Now he thinks I set a bad example because I don't wear the mask either. But I can't. He won't have to listen to me if I put the mask on."

"You brought him here."

"I used to bring him everywhere," Neelo admitted. "It was never-- it wasn't a problem before."

Neelo gestured to Phaedra's sparrow, as it preened itself.

"You know how it is," he said. The sparrow turned its uneven beady eyes on Neelo, as it felt itself the subject of conversation. "But then... he got here and he wanted to stay. This was the first place he ever wanted to stay. I can't..."

"You can't get him to leave again," Phaedra finished for him.

"I can, I just... need more time," he said. "Please, put on the mask. I only need a little bit more. You won't be delayed for long."

"I have a better idea," Phaedra said.

"Oh no," the sparrow whispered.

"What are you going to do?" Neelo asked, a flicker of worry passing over his face.

"I will not like this," the sparrow sighed.

 

* * *

 

What Phaedra did was the following: she unhooked every single wagon from the caravan except for Zelbada's grain shipment. This one she hooked directly to the front wagon, making the caravan the shortest it has been since leaving Pharast. 

It was an odd sight especially because her driver's cabin was speckled in layers of paint in varying shades of red, chipped away and painted over, and that one stray lime-green layer that had been all the rage for government vehicles a few decades back before a return to the more traditional palette. The shipment wagons were usually more functional shadows of brown and green, their contents depicted in red iconography or letters. 

Then Phaedra did the following: she toggled on all caravan's failsafes. The inner ones, the outer ones, the ones on the sides and under the carriage, until the shortened caravan, despite its lightened burden, was all but dragging itself, engine straining against the friction of all the safety features working in concert to make every spin of the wheels a monumental task.

To anyone witnessing the passing of the caravan from outside and some way off, the image would have likely been a confusing one: the impression of something going at great speeds, yet superimposed with the impression of a great, lumbering beast straining its limbs to go at speeds it was not meant to.

From those witnessing the advance of the caravan head-on, the sight would have been stranger still. 

The masked dancers were spry on their feet when it was required for elaborate bobbing spins around the square, but not, it seemed, for jumping out of the way of the caravan.

For those not aware enough of their surroundings to get out of the way, that was quite alright. They bounced harmlessly out of the way, in a rush of hot air, as their weight was reduced to feather-light, the caravan's failsafes brushing them aside with the gentleness of feathers on the wind. It was like a bubble of air parting the crowd before the caravan.

Until the caravan reached the gates of town hall, and did not stop. The gate was splintered in half around its lock, bouncing open and crashing against the courtyard's inner wall.

All the candles went out in the square, a startled collective flicker sputtering into nothingness.

If Phaedra were a more dramatic creature, she would have flung the door open and strode out of the driver's cabin like a vengeful warrior's ghost at that point. She was not; she opened the door carefully, making sure not to hit the wall of the small courtyard, and squeezed herself out.

There was no dancing anymore. Like the floor of a playroom after all the dolls had been knocked off a shelf, the village square was replete with expressionless faces which still somehow managed to look indignant.

And Phaedra walked into town hall.

 

* * *

 

The first impression Phaedra had of the Mummer was arms.

It was hard no to notice; there were so many. Long, elegant, alabaster arms, constantly moving in writhing rows, like the waves of a great field of grass when the winds blew.

"The dancing makes them happy," the Mummer said, his hands agitated, and whenever his fingers moved this way or that, Phaedra glimpsed shards of light, as if reflecting off shiny string, like the kind used to manipulate puppets. "As long as they dance, they can be happy. Please."

Phaedra stood in the doorway, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached, and her fingers gripping onto the doorframe as she regarded the Mummer.

The mayor's desk could barely contain the Mummer's elongated millipede body. It was segmented, but the segments looked like the ball-joints of a doll. His many hands were pale white, but his body was like weathered brass, patches of oxidation blooming green-blue from place to place. The constant motion of his arms seemed to have a self-conscious element to it up close.

"Please," the Mummer said in a terrified whisper. "What are you going to do to me?"

Phaedra walked towards the desk, her boots too loud in the dusty room. The lamps snuffed out as she approached, until she was up to the Mummer's desk and only a lamp stood between them.

She couldn't tell if what she was looking into was the Mummer's bare face or a mask. It was brass, and there were no eyes.

None of the masks had had eyes, but Phaedra only now noticed, in retrospect. Whenever the masks had been turned to her, it was not through the eyes that she'd been watched.

"What are you going to do?" the Mummer asked, a dry, sweet rot on its breath, like old books, like old wallpaper. Like the death of things which were never animate to begin with.

Phaedra reached into her pocket, deeply until she felt the coldness of metal against her fingers, and fished out a pen.

The Mummer's hands twitched in waves, from the uppermost, going down the full length of its body.

Phaedra reached into her coat's deeper pocket, and fished out a ream of papers, which she smacked down on the table. But it was only when Phaedra popped the cap off the pen that the Mummer flinched, and the flinch traveled down his body like the motion of his arms had.

"Sign here," Phaedra said, tapping an empty spot at the bottom of the page and offering the pen to the Mummer.

The Mummer took it into his nearest hand, passed it up and down an entire row of his hands as if testing the weight, and finally the pen was handed down to one of his arms propped on the table. He signed in a dead language, in letters that made up a name which hadn't been spoken since the collapse of a long-dead civilization. It had a large, elegant loop at the beginning.

Phaedra took the paper with his signature, set it aside, and tapped the next page.

"Another signature here," she said, and the Mummer complied, its second signature with a bit more flourish than the first.

"Right, that's all," Phaedra said. "That copy's yours," she gestured to the first paper the Mummer signed, and rolled up the rest to stuff back into her coat pocket. "Pharast red grain, second-grade, Zelbada's allotment for the year. Have a nice day."

When she capped the pen, the Mummer flinched again, as if it were the sound of a sword being sheathed, and he peered at her curiously.

Phaedra turned to leave.

"Wait," the Mummer said, just as she reached the door. Phaedra obligingly turned back towards him. "Will you... will you not stay for a dance?"

He produced a mask, presented it to Phaedra with shaky hands. It was rimmed with iridescent bluejays on the sides, and red and yellow poppies along the jaw.

"I don't like dancing," Phaedra said bluntly.

The Mummer reared back in surprise, hands fluttering with the sound of slapped flesh.

"No?" he asked.

"Some people don't like dancing," she said.

The Mummer seemed utterly perplexed by this notion, and slumped over the desk, as if given some very unpleasant things to consider. Phaedra left before she could see what dawning realization looked like when expressed by several dozen hands.

 

* * *

 

Phaedra unhooked the shipment, leaving it in the town square, and backed up her wagon with all the excess of caution it demanded when all of its failsafes were active. She was going to have a hell of a time putting them all to sleep again.

"Don't people usually like grain?" the sparrow asked from its place on the dashboard. "It shouldn't be such a production to make people take it."

"Gabby, hush," Phaedra said, as she backed out the wagon. There was not enough space to turn it in the square, so she had to back up all the way out of the village.

Neelo was waiting by the side of the road just outside Zelbada.

"I thought you were going to kill him," Neelo admitted.

Phaedra, peering out through the window at him, blinked in surprise.

"Why?" she asked. "That's not my job."

"Because he was... because he's..." Neelo was momentarily speechless. He swallowed before continuing, "He's usually the kind of thing people kill."

"He is," Phaedra agreed. "It's still not my job."

Neelo laughed.

"No, and you certainly did your job," he said, his face settling into a grin that seemed to be the lodestone around which his facial muscles had developed. "We're leaving now, I think. No more dancing."

"Well," Phaedra said, showing no strong reaction to this news, "about time everyone else got back to work."

Neelo nodded, apparently more out of obligation in the face of her vehemence, and reached into the folds of his coat. He pulled out a mask, grimacing as he did, and offered it to Phaedra.

"He... wants you to have this," Neelo said, "as a gift."

Phaedra stared for a few long seconds, her expression a perfect mask of neutrality that managed to look immensely sarcastic regardless.

"He said, if it makes you feel any better, it isn't a gift for you," Neelo added.

"Then why do I need to take it?"

"Because he thinks you'll know who to give it to." Neelo shrugged.

Phaedra had a long look at the mask. The lower half was red, shading into purple towards the forehead, and in undulating black lines, five eyes were painted on it, two in the common position and the other three fanning across the forehead like a crown. There were no eyeholes, as there'd been no eyeholes on any of the masks in Zelbada, but Phaedra got the sense that the mask could nonetheless see.

She reached out through the window and took the mask, pulling it inside and throwing it onto the passenger seat.

"Yeah, okay," she grunted, and waved Neelo off.

Then she left, and eventually, so did Neelo and the Mummer.


End file.
